We Used To Be Lovers.

💐

I’m writing this now, listening to Edge of Heaven by River Valley Worship, and tears are gathering in my eyes. I don’t know if it’s because of the depth of the song or the weight of the thoughts that have occupied my mind for days.

But hey, there. I’m Hosanna. Just in case this is the first time you’re coming across my publication.

I went to one of the most amazing secondary schools in the world. Mixed - boys and girls. I don’t know if I’d have coped well in an all-girls school. Boys brought balance, something to talk about, something to look forward to.

Having them around meant that your heart must have raced at least once for one of them. Back then, nothing mattered. Well, the only thing that mattered was agreement. Once that agreement was achieved, there was no need for a public address system. The whole school would know that these two people were in agreement.

The good thing is that it was pure and intentional.

What else would you expect from a boy that you liked and who liked you, if not a clean haircut, a nice scent, ghetto on uniforms, a bounce in his steps, and his eyes searching and reaching out for you in a room filled with other people?

An additional point if he played football or basketball, or if he raced it down on the field during interhouse sports.

He didn’t have to be the smartest in the room. He just needed to have eyes for only you, which was always the case then. Eyes were for one, not for one and another.

Everyone around had indirectly given their blessings to whatever two people had going on, and God forbid, it was called a relationship. That was your closest friend. Your Best Friend.

And what did an unbecoming boy expect from his highschool female heartthrob?

Presence.

A hug was far too much an acceptable form of intimacy. It was like doing the most, but nobody complained, because presence felt more than a hug. It enveloped.

It was screaming his name at the top of your voice while he tried his best on the football field. God helped him, he scored a goal. He looked up to the sky first and then turned to you, his next best thing.

He scored the goal for you. He was able to do that because you were there, present.

With your low cut and your games wear that might have lost a little colour, but in his eyes, you were the most beautiful girl in the world.

It was seeing him prepare for a maths competition, if he was one of those gurus. It was mouthing, “I know you can do it, and I’m proud of you,” in a way only he could discern.

It was being in a room full of people and you could tell he was nervous. You made gestures with your hands for him to calm down, and he nodded.

It was being a primary caregiver if he got sick. You walked to the sickbay and back because you were hardly able to concentrate in class. It was making sure his food was kept so he could eat and take his medication.

It was pretending to be upset because he had refused to eat. Then he apologised and proceeded to eat because he didn’t want you to be upset.

It was being the only one who could wear his cardigan when you were cold. It was being the only one who knew why he was not enthusiastic because he told only you. It was being the only one who could eat out of his plate, take his fish or meat, and he wasn’t mad.

It was friendship - which is a deeper concept than romance. It was love with no holes punctured yet.

It was all we had.

Presence.

All we could afford at the time. All we ever needed.

On birthdays, it wasn’t about the most expensive gifts. It was presence. It was the gestures. The regular check-ins to be sure your happiness was on a hundred, even through hectic classes.

It was the handwritten notes that were imperfect but also the most anticipated. It was the perfume on the handkerchiefs. The way your name was beautifully written on fancy hard-cover notebooks.

The way your plate became filled with fish or meat or egg - it depended. The speech that happened before your birthday was over, reminding you of how you were the most amazing friend in the world.

It was love that had no reason.

You couldn’t pin an explanation to it. You just deeply cared about this person, and in a room full of hundreds, your eyes met theirs first.

There was a bounce in your steps. You tried to swallow a smile, and suddenly your uniform felt like it needed adjustment.

It was going back again and again, even when she insisted she didn’t want to talk to you. It was begging her friends to help you beg. It was writing letters unending.

Today, they might call it making a fool of yourself or resolve to staying distant to keep the peace, but back then, there was nothing like that. How could it be folly when the only person you looked forward to seeing wasn’t talking to you?

There was no resting in that. No silence. No quietness. No colour. No waiting for her to come around. It was a constant chase, an ache that pulled you again and again, to get your favourite person to talk to you once more.

We used to be lovers.

We used to be so sold out to the concept more than we are now.

Did time happen?

Growth?

Distance?

Hurt?

Life?

Maybe love didn’t disappear. Maybe we did. Maybe the people who once believed presence was enough grew into people who ration themselves, who guard their hearts like fragile property, who confuse silence for maturity and distance for wisdom. Maybe we learned how to survive, how to move on quickly, how to look composed, but forgot how to stay. Forgot how to show up without conditions. Forgot how to love without rehearsing the exit. We didn’t stop being lovers because love failed; we stopped because the people who loved so freely became people who are afraid of how much it once cost us to feel that deeply. And somewhere between then and now, we grew up - becoming ‘wiser’, tougher, more careful - and left the best parts of ourselves behind.

Love,

Hosanna.♥️